The desert rasped as winds blew loose sand across stone harshly. A desert storm, common enough as to not even be worth commenting upon. Except for the man who walked within its very heart.
Jebel Rum, the infamous executioner of the um Wadi, walked along the streets of his once great city, now nothing more than a husk.
Tightening the string of his cloak, the man continued his march, passing by once beautiful houses. Now, they all stood abandoned. Polished wood and stone had rotted away, exposed to the elements for far too long. Magnificent wells had toppled, plants growing in the cracks. Rats and insects had made the water within them unpalatable.
He didn't care. There was nothing left for him here. His family lay buried in stone, his friends little more than somewhat fascinating statues. His house had crumbled long ago. All that he had left was the clothes on his back and the might to take whatever he needed.
Useless. What was the point of having enough strength to tear through armies as though they were merely a cloud of insects when it couldn't save one measly life. What use was the durability to walk in the very heart of a furnace and not be inconvenienced when your child lies broken on the floor. What purpose was in an axe that could only cleave human necks when you faced monsters.
What use was there living in a dead world?
But live he would. He would not die here. He would not be yet another meal for the foul spirits that had taken all that he held dear from him. No. Rakhebt Wadaq would have to wait a while longer before he could regale him with his latest adventure, for he was not yet ready to lay down and die.
And so he marched. The man born from a disgraced boy marched. The executioner born of the desire to see things through to the end marched forwards. The legend born of an executioner who had turned everything upon its head marched forwards and mourned the past.
The Thin Executioner did not, however, look back.
And so he marched, alone, in the hopes that he would get the chance to make up for all that he had mistakenly done. He wandered, lost, desperately trying to find a purpose. Endlessly seeking, without a moment's respite, an impossible dream.
But the again, that was all he had done anyways.
*****
There was a boy, once. He had a dream, as many children at that age do. He dreamed of making his father proud, of following in his footsteps and doing what he did.
Of being the executioner.
But the child could not. Not as he was. For he was not seen as being worthy of such an esteemed title. The executioner, you see, was the most respected man of their tribe. It was believed that Aineh Asad, their god of iron, had personally chosen the very first executioner. Not just anyone could just walk up and claim the title of executioner. But in exchange, not just anyone could remove the executioner.
You had to prove yourself worthy to be the executioner. To face challenges so fierce that it would make many a grown man quail, and you had to face them before you were to be a man.
But in exchange, so long as you held firm to the laws of your people, no one could remove you from the position until death.
And the child, though he was the executioner's son, was not seen fit to face the challenges. In front of his entire tribe, his father snubbed him. He forgot him, overlooked him for his stronger, older brothers.
So the disgraced child sought to earn back his honor. He quested to Tubayget, to petition the god of Fire, the father god Sabbah Eid, to grant him the strength to succeed. To accomplish his dreams. Together with a slave who had more love for his family than any father today, he quested.
And on that quest, within a year, the haughty boy was broken.
Or rather, it is better to say that the haughty boy no longer remains the same, perhaps?
Who knows? But in that quest, he met a tribe. In that quest, when he was held captive by a religion of madmen and monsters, he met a tribe. In this tribe, there was a custom. In this custom, there was a sacrifice. With this sacrifice were demons appeased. However, it is a sad fact that monsters may not stand to see any greater than they themselves.
So the madmen, they sharpened their knives and whetted their blades, and upon the dark of night, when the kind tribe had brought them into their homes and broke their bread. These monsters showed their true faces.
All their people were slaughtered. Their streets ran red with the blood of their innocents. The cries of infants seperated from their mothers and mothers torn from their infants echoed through their halls.
Later, however, the madmen would be granted their due and just fates, brought down by yet another tribe like the one they themselves had massacred. But the damage had been done.
For who was left to feed the demons? No one.
And so did the demons hunger, layed fat upon their slothfulness. For had their meals not been brought before them? But a starving beast is the worst form of beast, for it is a mad beast, only less sane.
So as the foul demons starved and hungered, they once more began to move. They rattled the bars of their cage, hurling themselves against the doors of their prison. Each day, they grew more and more desperate, more hungry for the delicious flesh they had enjoyed before, and each day their struggles grew more and more intense.
Until one day, they broke free.
And thus did the world die. Not with a whimper, and not with a bang, but with the screams of man and beast alike as they were devoured whole.